


someone else

by siegeofangels



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: BDSM, Costumes, Crossdressing, Feminization, M/M, Riding Crops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23158066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siegeofangels/pseuds/siegeofangels
Summary: Brad wants Nate to get what he wants, but he doesn’t want someone else to give it to him. And Brad can’t do it.But what if Brad was . . . someone else.
Relationships: Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Comments: 6
Kudos: 56





	someone else

The first time they try it it’s a disaster. Brad gets Nate down on his knees and says “Alright, hands behind your back,” in his command voice--it feels weird to him, this is _Nate_, he can’t do this, and--

Nate gulps air and says, “Red, red, nope, I can’t, I feel like I’m back in OCS.” 

“Yeah, no,” Brad says, dropping down to the floor and pulling Nate down on top of him. “I can’t, it’s too weird, it’s like I’m at work.” 

Nate lays his head down on Brad’s shoulder and huffs out a laugh. “It’s okay, it’s just a fantasy.” 

***

Brad still thinks about it, though, because he knows that Nate _likes_ it, he’s heard about the shit Nate got up to in college and the kind of porn he’ll go to if he wants to get off fast, and it bugs him that there’s something that Nate wants in bed that Brad can’t give to him. 

So he thinks about it. Goes through Nate’s porn bookmarks, and thinks about it. 

And then he gives Ray a call. Ray knows all sorts of freaky people from back in his band days. 

Because the thing is, Brad wants Nate to get what he wants, but he doesn’t want someone else to give it to him. And Brad can’t. 

But what if Brad was . . . someone else. 

You can buy pretty much anything online these days, though, and Nate is used to just tossing unopened Amazon boxes into Brad’s computer room when he brings them in from the front porch. So Brad does some ordering, and he gets out his metal Craftsman tape measure and does his best to wrap it around his waist, and does some more ordering, and then he waits for a day he’s got off and Nate doesn’t. 

Shaving his legs is more annoying due to the sheer square footage than anything else, but painting his fingernails bright red is actually kind of fun. His fingers look long now, attention-getting, and Brad’s actually getting turned on thinking about those red nails touching Nate. 

The skirt is black and fluffy enough to disguise his cock, and the lining is smooth and clingy against the newly-sensitive skin at the tops of his thighs. He wiggles his feet into the new boots and zips them up. 

The corset is shiny patent leather, and he watches in the mirror as it changes his shape, feeling the compression of his ribs. He pulls the laces as tight as he dares and ties them off, turns from side to side, looks over his shoulder. He doesn’t look quite like a chick, but the usual long straight lines of his body are softened. He looks--different. 

Which was the point, but . . . yeah. He likes it. He hopes Nate does. 

The eyeliner ends up kind of smudgy, but the lipstick goes on smooth, and it’s not too hard to settle the wig on and smooth down the bangs. 

It’s . . . wow. He looks different, really different, and he thinks that this might actually work. 

_I have a surprise for you when you get home_, he texts Nate, and then: _dessert first_, which is code for “I’m jumping you when you get home.” 

_eta 16:30_, Nate sends back, which means he’s leaving early to facilitate the plan. 

Brad spends the hour practicing walking in the damn boots, and figuring out how to pick up things from the floor given that he can no longer bend at the waist. By 16:15 he’s mostly got it down and goes to wait in the living room with a view of the door, carefully leaning against the wall with the riding crop dangling from one hand. 

(Go cliche or go home, he’d figured.) 

When the door opens Brad can see the scene hit Nate like a fist; Nate actually takes a step back as his brain frantically fires neurons. 

Well. He’s in it now. Brad pitches his voice a few notes higher, a little more gentle. “Hi,” he says. “You can call me Mistress Lillian.” 

***

Holy shit. Brad is--holy shit, the corset and the black hair and the _boots_, Brad is like something out of Nate’s brain, some dark angel stepped straight out of porn. Nate’s brain is a little confused but his dick is a hundred percent on board. 

Nate hears a couple of sounds that are probably the door slamming shut and his messenger bag hitting the floor, but all he’s really paying attention to is getting down on his knees and looking _up_. “Mistress,” he says. 

She taps the riding crop on her boot. “Are you going to be a good boy for me?” 

Nate can’t look away. “Yes, mistress.” 

“What color is the traffic light?” Her voice is--Brad’s and not Brad’s at the same time. Softer. 

“Green, mistress,” he says. 

She smiles, red lips like blood. “Good,” she says. “Take your clothes off and get back down on your knees.” 

The next thing Nate knows, his bare knees are on the floor, his stiffening cock bobbing in front of him. He doesn’t know where to put his hands. 

“Behind your back,” she says, gentle, and it’s so clearly the opposite of last time, so obviously what he didn’t know he always wanted. Nate closes his eyes. 

“Behind your back,” she repeats, and Nate jerks back to himself and does it, grabbing his forearms with the opposite hand so he doesn’t forget. 

She takes a couple of steps toward him, one hand dragging along the back of the couch, then reaches out with the crop and traces it along his face, down his chest, along his cock. Nate wants to cry, he wants her to touch him again. 

“You made me repeat myself,” she says, still so terribly gentle. “I think you deserve a punishment.” The crop skims down his shoulder, taps a nipple. 

“Please, mistress,” Nate says. Anything she says. 

“Hmm,” she says. “Five strikes with this, or you can forfeit your orgasm.” 

“Pleaseletmecomepleaseletmecome,” Nate says. 

She laughs, and steps back. Stops touching him. “All right,” she says. “Turn around, bend over.” 

He shuffles around to present her with his backside and awkwardly folds himself down. A hand pushes his shoulders down, pushes his face into the carpet. It’s rough on his cheek but all he can think of is how hard he knows she can hit. 

“Good boy,” she says. “You’re going to count them off and thank me for them, aren’t you.” 

“Yes, mistress,” he says. 

One, thank you Mistress Lillian, is a quick swat at the back of his thigh that stings in a beautiful way; it makes tears spring and his cock jump. 

The next strike is a solid thwack in the center of one ass cheek, and his voice breaks on “Thank you.” 

Three is hard again, and tears are escaping his eyes, and he barely finishes thanking her before number four is coming down on the same spot. His voice sounds like a sob now. 

“One more,” she says; “you’re doing so well,” and the last strike lands just on the crease at the top of his left thigh, stings the sensitive flesh so perfectly. 

“Five, thank you Mistress Lillian,” he gasps out, and just tries to breathe. 

“Very good,” she says, and drags the leather of the crop over his thighs and ass, pulling the sensation out, making him tingle all over. 

“Please, mistress, may I come,” Nate says, the tears still flowing. 

She tsks. “Kneel back up,” she says, and he scrambles to obey without letting go of his wrists. She still looks so fucking amazing, black against pale skin and miles, _miles_ of leg. He still hasn’t been able to touch her, and he wants to, wants it more than he wants to come. 

“I--” Nate says. “Please, may I put my mouth on you?” 

She smiles again and beckons him with a finger. 

The skin of her thighs is soft over lean muscle, and he mouths over it, nuzzles down to where her boots hug her calves, stretches up until his mouth is under her skirt and the familiar scent of sex surrounds him. She’s--she’s taller than he’s used to, and he realizes that it’s the boots. The heels make up the extra few inches. 

His hips jerk forward at the thought, and his cock rubs on the slick shaft of her boot. 

“Like that,” she says, and slides one hand to the back of his neck. Something bumps his ass and he realizes it’s the riding crop, slung around her wrist, dangling down and tapping him when he pulls his hips back. 

He’s getting there fast, her scent and her hand and the sting of the skin on his backside, rubbing his cock inelegantly along patent leather with his hands behind his back--

“_Such_ a good boy,” she says, and Nate comes, panting into her skirt. 

When he gets his breath back he noses until he can get his mouth on her cock, and her hand moves from the back of his neck to feed it to him. It’s a different angle than he’s used to, and his brain is still mostly offline, but he relaxes his jaw and sucks and listens as the gentle voice changes to the deep “Fuck, _fuck_” he knows and loves. 

As Brad starts to come he moves in a not-right way, and Nate brings his aching arms up to grab him securely around the hips, to keep him from falling until he’s done coming. Nate bears him gently down onto the carpet and then crawls up and kisses him and kisses him until neither of them can breathe. 

They lay there for a minute and then Brad says in his regular voice, “So. Success?” 

“I can’t feel my brain,” Nate rasps. “Success.” 

They bump fists. 

A while later, Nate says drowsily, “How long did it take you to shave your legs?” 

“For-fucking-ever,” Brad says. “Next time I’m making you do it for me.” 

“ . . . yes,” says Nate.


End file.
